Switcheroo
by Armelle-Madeline
Summary: When an accidental ‘kiss’ between Draco and Harry triggers a spell on Draco, the two inadvertently switch bodies. While they attempt to work out how to switch –back- they have to teach one another to act more like ‘themselves’. Unfortunately, Draco has Ha
1. Quidditch Clash

A/N: A fic to tidy myself over until the epic begins. (Which I say come starting every new fic. But I mean it! This time… ) Written for Elaine. Cross-posted via my LJ, and to FictionAlley, so if you see it around - grin

Summary: When an accidental 'kiss' between Draco and Harry triggers a spell on Draco, the two inadvertently switch bodies. While they attempt to work out how to switch –back- they have to teach one another to act more like 'themselves'. Unfortunately, Draco has Harry's life in his hands – and Harry is destroying Draco's reputation.

Switcheroo

When Harry rolled over in bed that morning, he screwed up his eyes against the light and wondered why an odd, sick feeling had settled in his stomach. The hangings were yanked back with a rattle against the poles, and Ron's grinning face peered at him through the gap.

"Come on, Harry," he said cheerfully, throwing a pillow full into Harry's face. "Get up. First Quidditch match of the season today."

Harry rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. _That_ was the reason he felt so awful.

It didn't stop before breakfast. He made his way down to the Great Hall, Ron at his side chatting excitedly about strategies, and 'I really have got the Wronski Feint down now, Harry', and slid in beside Hermione. The brown haired girl looked up from her copy of 'Hogwarts, a History', propped open against a jar of marmalade, and obligingly shuffled closer to Ginny, to make room for Harry.

"Good luck, Harry," Hermione said warmly, pouring milk over her porridge. "It's a lovely day for the match."

Harry felt his stomach turn over rather drastically, and nodded silently, looking around the Hall. The other students were all talking happily to one another, eating breakfast and probably discussing the forthcoming match. As his eyes ran over the Ravenclaw table, Cho Chang looked up from her cereal and their eyes met briefly. She smiled briefly, mouthed 'good luck', and then turned back to her friends.

Harry's gaze fell on the Slytherin table; the entirety of which was a seething mass of green. Pansy Parkinson, with a green Slytherin scarf knotted around her neck tidily was in deep discourse with a dark haired, sly looking boy. As Harry watched absently, she looked up and at him, with deep dislike. Her eyes narrowed and her mouth pressed into a thin line. She said something to the boy she'd been chatting to, and both of them glanced at him quickly, then fell to serious talk once more; their eyes flicking occasionally back over to him.

Unsettled, Harry sat back in his seat, and began spreading a piece of toast with jam for want of anything else to do.

"Oh, it _would_ be Slytherin," Ron moaned, gesturing wildly with his sticky knife at the Slytherin table. "First match of the season. They're going to try and knock me off my broom again." He scowled darkly across at Adrian Pucey, the big, broad Quidditch captain.

"Don't be silly," Hermione said mildly, taking his knife out of his hand before he stabbed her in the eye with it, and laying it tidily at the side of his plate. "It's Professor Flitwick refereeing, Ron. He won't stand for the Slytherins messing about."

Ron nodded resignedly. "Doesn't stop Malfoy trying any funny business, though," he said dejectedly. "He's bound to try and put me off."

"Where is he, anyway?" Harry asked who hadn't seen the smug blond boy at the breakfast table, anywhere near his usual gang of cronies.

Ron's face brightened. "Perhaps he's in the Hospital Wing," he suggested, happier. "Perhaps he's got himself slapped one too many times, or he's fallen off that broom of his and Slytherin will forfeit the match."

At that moment, the blond swaggered into the Great Hall, accompanied by Crabbe and Goyle, and even from across the room Harry could hear his loud demands for coffee, as he sat down beside the dark haired boy and Pansy.

"Worse luck," Ron said feelingly, knocking back a mouthful of pumpkin juice.

"You're not eating, Harry." Hermione nudged him gently in the side with her elbow. "You need to eat up; you can't play Quidditch on an empty stomach."

"All right, _Mum_," Ron put in witheringly, springing to his friend's defence. "Harry's all right, aren't you, mate?" He looked over at him.

"I feel a bit sick," Harry admitted, laying down his knife beside his untouched toast. "I don't think I _can_ eat anything, Hermione."

"Nonsense," she said calmly, dipping her spoon into her own bowl of porridge. "Just forget the match. Ginny's playing, and you don't see her not eating breakfast, do you? Don't worry, Harry. You always win against Slytherin, anyway."

Ginny Weasley grinned at him companionably from the other side of Hermione.

"We'll smash them," she said complacently. "I'd like to shove the Snitch up Malfoy's nose." She rubbed her hands together with a bloodthirsty smack. "I'll settle for beating him, and making the first match of the season his last. Scummy little prat. Did you _hear_ what he said to Padma Patil?"

Harry, still dazed by a Ginny Weasley who took her duties as a Chaser very, very seriously, shook his head. Hermione glanced at Ginny and sighed.

"We all know Draco Malfoy is a little brat," she observed dryly, as the boy's court clustered around his end of the Slytherin table. "You'll simply have to prove you're the better sportsman, Harry. And that's all. Now eat your breakfast."

Harry buttoned his Quidditch robes with fingers that fumbled on the fastenings. He stopped, looking around the locker-room at his teammates. Ron was shrugging the scarlet robes on over his jersey, Ginny and Katie Bell sat next to one another tightening leg guards and talking in low, urgent voices. The two third years, both of which were Beaters, had stoically blank expressions, but Harry could see the faint note of panic and excitement as cautiously, they tested the weights of their clubs. The last Chaser, Juliet Landy was a small Second Year. She looked tiny now to Harry, against the heft and muscle of the Slytherin team.

"Right, team," he said awkwardly, and wished he'd remembered better exactly how Wood used to begin these talks. It had been a long time since he'd played Quidditch under the burly Seventh Year.

He looked around for inspiration, and could only see their faces. The new ones; expectant, upturned towards him as if he was supposed to give them some sage advice, and the familiar, Ginny and Ron with grins at him being 'Captain', and Katie with a warm smile. He wondered absently why she hadn't been given the position. After all, she was a Seventh Year.

"Let's go out and… Try and win," he completed his sentence, and rather wished he hadn't. There was a knock at the door by Madam Hooch.

"Teams up," she reminded them, and the Gryffindor team surged out of the locker-room, the third years talking quietly, Juliet asking questions of Katie. Harry fell into step with Ron and Ginny.

"Don't worry," Ginny coaxed, patting his arm rather shyly, her hand heavy in the brown leather guard. "You'll be fine. I've got to run ahead – Juliet's first match, remember? I've got to make sure she's all right." She exchanged a look with Ron that Harry guessed was something very Weasley in communication, letting Ron know that he had to continue what she'd begun. She hurried off ahead, her gingery plait flying out behind her with her robes as she caught up to Katie and Juliet.

"She's right, you know." Ron's remark was deceptively off-hand. "You will." He looked askance at Harry, a sort of summing up glance that only a friend could make. "You're the best player we've had, since Charlie. Everyone knows that."

Harry nodded. "I know," he said uncomfortably. "Everyone says things like that. But what if I get it _wrong_?" He looked at Ron rather desperately, wishing the other boy understood. He could see Ron didn't, however much he battled to. "I keep getting _made_ things, and although Quidditch isn't everything, it's still _something._ Katie could have been Captain. You could've been Captain." Ron flushed, and began to say something, and Harry shook his head firmly.

"You could. But it's me. Me again." He was quiet once again; how could he explain the expectation? That 'famous Harry Potter' would win again? That he was something special, and could make things different?

Ron seemed to make up his mind about something, and clapped him on the arm. "Mate," he said solemnly, "Whatever it is that's made you so uptight, I suggest you get over it now, because we're about two minutes away from mount-up."

Harry nodded, and tried to force a smile back. "Yeah," he agreed. "I should. C'mon, let's get ready to play."

The stands were packed with students. Bright, cold blue sky overhead meant visibility was perfect; the crisp chill of autumn was without the complications of snow, or heavy rain, which Harry was thankful for. He looked around the stadium. The Slytherin section sat solidly, shoulder to shoulder, in green. Professor Snape sat, his face composed and impassive in the front row, in his normal black robes with a highly noticeable green and silver scarf tossed around his neck. Harry shivered.

The other House sections had filled out too. Luna Lovegood, Neville Longbottom and Hermione were sat together in the Gryffindor stand. Even in the Ravenclaw section, Harry could see faint snatches of red, and he could make out Cho Chang, sitting giggling with her friends, in the centre of the seats.

As they walked out onto the pitch, Harry could see the Slytherin team coming towards him. Adrian Pucey, the heavy-set Quidditch Captain bore down on him, his pasty face grim and set. Behind him, Harry could see Draco Malfoy, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. The blond's face was paler than usual, but when he caught Harry looking, he smirked, and said something to the other two boys. They laughed raucously, giving Harry nasty smiles.

Madam Hooch walked briskly onto the pitch, her black robes billowing with her strides. She looked at each of them, measuring them up, and then glanced over to Professor Flitwick, who stood to one side, his broom ready.

"Captains, shake hands," she said flatly, and Adrian Pucey barged his way forwards from the ranks of his team, to stand to the left of Madam Hooch. Harry stepped forward to stand on the other side. He held out his hand calmly. Adrian's grip was uncomfortably tight and strong.

"Right, teams mount up," Madam Hooch said with a blow of her whistle. The game had begun.

Harry hovered over the game, watching the action. Ginny raced the Slytherin Chaser down the pitch, streaking towards the goal, and 'Goal!' He could hear the roar from the Gryffindor stands, and see the glint of red and gold Gryffindor scarves being waved in the air. Ginny shot past him, glancing his way and grinning, before her concentration settled back on the game.

They were having a hard time of it. Seamus Finnagan was announcing, his voice magically amplified from the stands to be heard by everyone. Harry could hear him clearly, in the stillness of the day.

"And that's another goal to Slytherin, bad luck Gryffindor Keeper, Ron Weasley." Harry could almost see Seamus' cheerful face scrunched up in sympathy for Ron. He _could _see Ron doing a frustrated lap of his goals, as Juliet Landy tore off with the Quaffle, passing it back and forth to Katie as they raced up the other end of the pitch.

"Goal! And Slytherin are in the lead, a hundred and ten points to thirty." Seamus sounded positively dejected at the news, but unable to say anything worse, as Harry knew from experience Professor McGonagall would be hovering at his shoulder. Since the days of Lee Jordan, Professor McGonagall was a great deal warier about what she let the students say during matches.

In fact, Harry was starting to worry about the outcome. The Gryffindor team worked well together, the Chasers predicted one another's movements efficiently. Ron was doing his best to guard the goals, and the Beaters were everywhere at once, hitting the Bludgers valiantly at whichever Slytherin was clutching the Quaffle. Whatever they did though did not make up for the sheer strength of the Slytherin team. Crabbe and Goyle's power behind their bats outstripped the Gryffindors. Juliet and Ginny were light and speedy, but they couldn't barrel their way through the way Graham Pritchard and Theodore Nott could. The Slytherins were pulling every dirty trick out of the bag they could, and Harry was hardly surprised when an odiously familiar sound began again.

'_Weasley is our King, Weasley is our King, he always lets the Quaffle in, Weasley is our King.'_

Oh _no_. Not again. Harry could see Ron stop on his broom, as Graham Pritchard bore down on him with all the grim determination of scoring one more goal. Harry swept across the pitch to see where Ginny, Katie and Juliet were, but the three girls were down at the other end, racing back on their brooms and narrowly missing the Bludgers that Crabbe and Goyle were batting right at them.

Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye. The Snitch! The first sighting of it all game. He could see Malfoy sitting up sharply on his broom, and Harry surged forward, his Firebolt diving forward in pursuit of the evasive golden ball.

He could hear Seamus Finnagan yelling, 'And the Snitch has been spotted!' as a roar in his ears as he turned his broom upwards to shoot into the blue after the whizzing gold blur ahead. Malfoy pursued from the opposite direction. He was so near that Harry could see his face set into a tight mask, his lips pressed so thinly together that they looked bloodless. Harry's knuckles had gone white with the grip on his broom. He could feel the wood solidly under his palms as real as the wind rushing past his face.

He drew up sharply, using the precious extra minutes bought by superior broom-speed to scan the skies for the Snitch. Had it gone, again? His heart sank, and then – There it was. Darting upwards. He urged his broom on, seeing Malfoy shoot out from his own hover, and they were inches away… Harry stretched out a hand, trying to shift his balance on the broom; he could see Malfoy's own gloved hand reaching as determinedly as he. They were inches away, millimetres, his fingers were just about to brush it as tantalisingly the ball hung in mid-air, seemingly still as its wings fluttered and whirred.

"It's mine," Malfoy shouted, reaching forward. Harry's hand closed around his half just as Malfoy gripped his. Harry could feel the cold, grooved metal of the ball against his palm, could feel the trapped wings beat against his enclosing fingers and then – Wham!

With a sickening 'thump', the Bludger smashed into them, knocking both boys from their brooms and they were falling, falling, both still clutching the Snitch between them possessively. The ground rose up to meet them; Harry could hear the frightened shouts of people running onto the pitch, and then he fell, hard against the grass of the pitch, his back slamming into it painfully. A moment later, Malfoy had fallen, sprawled across him with a heavy weight, so flush to him had he been that they were pressed hip to hip, chest to chest, face to face, and Malfoy's face came so close to his own that their noses crashed together, and their mouths touched.

Then Malfoy's weight was off him, and Harry could breathe. He sighed, and closed his eyes, surrendering to the pain threatening to overwhelm him and fell into blackness.

He could smell the disinfectant, starched smell of the Hospital Wing before he opened his eyes. It was a smell of clean sheets that were scratchy with stiffness, of beeswax from the highly polished bedside tables and the faint smell of burnt gas from the lamps that served as night-lights in the Hospital Wing. Harry knew the smell mixture intimately; it was labelled as 'injured' in his memory, and as he breathed in the concoction of scents that was uniquely this place, he knew where he was.

He blinked, wincing in the bright sunlight flooding the room from the large windows and shook his head to clear it of the muzziness of passing out. He could make out a figure at the bottom of his bed, and screwed up his eyes to see better.

"Welcome back," said a somewhat familiar voice. Harry frowned, unable to quite realise what he was hearing. Surely… Surely not? He looked more closely. The speaker was… him. Him, Harry Potter. He could see the same thick black hair he brushed every morning with varying degrees of success in making it lie flat. The smudge of dried jam at the corner of his mouth from the little breakfast he'd actually eaten. His _scar_. His own green eyes watching him intently from behind his own glasses, the ones Dudley had sat on and bent out of shape. The ones Hermione had repaired a dozen times.

"What's going on?" he managed to choke out, still staring at the boy who was him. "Who are you? Why do you look like…me?" The mirror image smiled with a smirk totally unfamiliar on his face, and drawled in Harry's own voice with a laziness of tone that was nothing _like_ him,

"It's me. Draco Malfoy."

Harry blinked. "What?" He looked again, and everything was there still. It wasn't a bizarre dream, he thought wildly. Perhaps it was a side effect of being knocked out one too many times, any minute now, Hermione and Ron would be standing next to him and he would be –

He couldn't tear his eyes away from his own face, and watched it slide into grim lines.

"I want to know," he heard himself say, "How you've done this."

"What?" Harry said it again, more desperately this time. How was this even _possible?_ What had Malfoy done to mirror him so completely? He slid down from the bed quickly, stepping closer to this other-him.

"Malfoy, what sort of prank are you pulling? Is this Polyjuice Potion? Why do you want to go around looking like me for?" Harry suddenly felt a flash of fear. "What are you trying to do to Gryffindor?" he demanded, accusatorily. "You can't get in, you don't know the password."

"Why would I want to go around looking like _you_?" Malfoy sneered back in a tone Harry had never used. "If you've not done this, I don't understand-" He broke off, and seemed to be thinking.

"You'd better reverse it," Harry advised, folding his arms. "I can't have two mes running around Hogwarts." He watched his own face change, and then Malfoy smiled dryly.

"Obviously you haven't worked it out yet," he drawled. "Mind you, I've been awake longer. There aren't any 'two yous'. You're _me_."

Harry frowned again and then the door to the hospital wing opened. Both boys turned to face the entrance.

"Harry!" Hermione sounded almost tearful as she and Ron managed to get past Madam Pomfrey's gimlet eye, and hurried into the ward. At the same time as they were let in, Pansy Parkinson and the dark haired boy strode in hurriedly, still wrapped in their green scarves.

As Harry smiled warmly at his friends to re-assure them he was all right, Hermione and Ron walked past him without a glance – to Malfoy.

"Are you all right?" he could hear Hermione ask as she hugged Malfoy fiercely. Harry saw a disgusted expression appear on his own features over Hermione's shoulder, and Malfoy wriggled gingerly in Hermione's embrace.

Before he could protest – _hang on, Hermione, that's not _me. I'm_ me! – _The two Slytherins were in front of him, blocking his view of Hermione, Ron and 'Harry'.

"Are you all right?" Pansy Parkinson asked him, looking at him closely. "Oh, Draco! Potter _fell_ on you; we were so worried." She gave 'Harry' a scathing look.

Madam Pomfrey bustled in before Harry was forced to answer, dazed as he was. She was as starched and proper as ever, her lips pressed together tightly.

"If you'd release Mr Potter and Mr Malfoy, please," she said curtly, and her wand was out as soon as Hermione, Pansy, Ron and the dark haired boy whose name Harry didn't know stepped dutifully away from the two boys. There was simply no such thing as arguing with Madam Pomfrey. She didn't like it, or accept it.

Busily, Madam Pomfrey made a short gesture with her wand. A golden ribbon wove out of the end of it, circling Malfoy-as-Harry, and a moment later, she did the same again, a silver ribbon curling around Harry. The ribbons shot back to her, and she seemed to read them, nodding her head brightly as they waited in silence.

"Mr Potter received a nasty crack on the head," she informed them, "So I shall be keeping him overnight for observation. There doesn't seem to be anything the matter," her tone was ominous, the 'yet' was implicit, "But Mr Malfoy, you may go. You have no further adverse effects. Miss Parkinson, Mr Zabini, I trust you can escort Mr Malfoy back to his common-room?"

Pansy Parkinson nodded her head, a tight little movement of acquiescence. The dark haired boy gave a vague gesture that looked like assent.

"Very good," Madam Pomfrey agreed. She looked at Harry. "If you'll go on, Mr Malfoy." She turned to look at Malfoy-as-Harry closer, tilting his head to one side to examine the size of his pupils. Harry was effectively dismissed.

"B... but-" Harry stammered, and then two hands were slipped into his and tugged, firmly.

"We'll look after him," Pansy said firmly, and pinched the web of skin between finger and thumb. Harry gave a strangled yelp, and when Madam Pomfrey turned around, inquiringly, Harry followed docilely as he was led.

Outside in the corridor, Pansy stopped him.

"Draco, what did that woman _do_ to you?" she sighed, facing Harry and frowning her anxiety. Harry swallowed.

"Um… what do you mean?" he asked awkwardly. Pansy reached out, and with her fingers, smoothed the collar of his Quidditch shirt, picked off a bit of dried mud from his jersey with a disgusted look and a dainty flick of her fingertips, and straightened the shoulder seams of his robes so that they lay tidily along the line of his shoulders.

"You were a mess," the Zabini boy put in, helpfully. "You haven't looked a mess since you fell off your broom in second year, or that time you bounc-"

"Blaise, I really don't think Draco needs to discuss that _now_," Pansy hastily put in. Harry's lips twitched involuntarily. A glorious visual of Draco, the amazing bouncing ferret had slid into his mind.

"He's right, though," Pansy added thoughtfully. "You never look untidy. You must have been hurt really _badly._ Honestly, that Pomfrey woman! Hasn't a clue what she's on about. Mother always said-"

"Oh, do shut up about your mother," Blaise muttered under his breath, so that only Harry would catch it. "She has a view on _everything_. 'A lady always'," he mimicked, in an undertone that was cleverly close to Pansy's own.

"A lady always knows never to take chances, particularly with health," Pansy sniffed, apparently blithely unaware of Blaise's mockery, until her hand flashed out, and she hit him, hard in the shoulder.

"Ouch," Blaise nursed his arm injuredly, glaring at Pansy. Pansy smiled serenely.

"Let's get Draco back to the common-room, before the Gryffindors decide to get annoyed that Draco got knocked off his broom by Potter's clumsiness." She slipped an arm around Harry's shoulders with more forcefulness than gentleness, and they began walking, Blaise's arm around his waist. When the hand settled on his arse, Harry looked at Pansy, eyes wide, but she was totally unaware. Suspiciously, Harry glanced at Blaise. The dark-haired boy's face was perfectly composed, and innocent.

No one seemed to have realised he was Harry Potter, not Draco Malfoy. He couldn't seem to find the words to tell them, to stop both Parkinson and Zabini and say, 'here, look, I'm not Malfoy, I'm Harry Potter and we appear to have somehow switched bodies'. Perhaps it was the fear of being resoundly laughed at, and their refusal to believe him. More than likely, though, was the fact that although Harry was very definitely apprehensive about walking into Slytherin, he was more than a little curious.

And after all – Draco Malfoy had been left alone with a Hermione and Ron who thought that Malfoy was Harry.


	2. The Sweet Smell Of Coffee In The Morning

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, characters or setting. They are the property of JK Rowling, et al. This is a piece of fanfiction written for no profit.

A/N: I had such fun writing the first chapter that I updated rather more quickly than normal. I hope you like this piece of fanfiction; I'm enjoying writing it! I've rather a thought that it's going to be quite long, so I'm grateful for all and any reviews I get! Feedback to an author is like gold-dust; rare and treasured.

**thiefofblueness**** – **Thanks! I'm very glad you enjoy the story, and the beginning! That beginning has very, um, 'special' connontations, for both of them. Did you work out the reason for the gold and silver ribbons? That's a little plot thing I thought up.

**mintapotter**** – **Hee hee. I would have thought it was obvious! Pansy's a very proper sort of girl! Her mother would never approve!

**'lizabeth – **Thank you. Yes, I'm very much going to stick to referring to 'Harry-in-Draco's-body' as 'Harry', and 'Draco-in-Harry's-body' as Draco, or Malfoy. Harry's far more likely to call him Malfoy than anything else. I hope I don't confuse anyone, though I think it's easy enough to work out!

**triola**** – **Wait in suspense no longer! Hee hee, it's a new chapter, so here you go.

**serena**** – **I'm very glad you think so! Thanks.

* * *

The Sweet Smell Of Coffee In The Morning

The corridor Pansy and Blaise led him down was darker than most. There were no wide, mullioned windows down here, with the bright autumn sunshine streaming in. Instead, lit torches hung in brackets along the length of the walls, at the right height to see. Interspaced among them were window frames, and as Harry walked on at Pansy's brisk pace, he snatched glances curiously at the view through them. There _was_ a view; that in itself was a strange thing, because as the corridor snaked around abruptly, Harry knew they were deeply underground. As he looked he could see fragments of green grass, and occasionally, the Quidditch pitch. He longed to ask but thought better of it.

The corridor stopped abruptly in front of them. Two suits of armour flanked a large tapestry, which glowed with the rich silks used to weave it. A coiled serpent with its jaws wide displaying sharp, pointed fangs rose up on a rock. The bright glint of precious stones shone from its eyes. Harry felt a soft shiver run down his spine. The flicker of torch-light over the jewels stirred the sense he always had before speaking in Parseltongue. Could he, he wondered. Could Malfoy's body speak Parseltongue if Harry knew it?

There was silence, and Harry looked from Pansy to Blaise, both of whom were looking at him expectantly, Pansy with a slightly bemused expression.

"Go on, Draco," she said, a tinge of worry in her voice. "Normally, you can't wait."

"What?" Harry asked awkwardly, feeling more and more confused by the minute. Now Blaise stared at him with a similar expression.

"The password," the dark haired boy stated, lifting an eyebrow in a questioning look. "You know. The thing you refuse to allow us to say. In your exuberance to get inside."

"I've… forgotten it," Harry thought of his answer on the spot, speedily. "I think I got hit on the head harder than Madam Pomfrey thought." He tried hastily to summon up a sneer. "Silly woman doesn't know what she's doing." The look of sheer relief Pansy exchanged with Blaise told him that he was doing _something_ vaguely similar to Draco at any rate.

"All right," Blaise said, after a short pause. He turned, and addressed the tapestry snake. "_Down with Godric!_" he said briskly, and as Harry blinked in astonishment (and tried to stifle a snort of laughter) the snake's eyes sparkled and its jaws snapped with an audible bite. The tapestry shifted and a door behind it swung open.

Cautiously, Harry followed Pansy and Blaise inside. It was warm, unexpectedly. A fire blazed in a huge fireplace that took up most of one wall. Scattered about were the same deep, comfortable armchairs they had upstairs in Gryffindor, but as he vaguely remembered from Second Year, in black and green. Pansy made her way immediately across the room, and shooed a couple of First Years on a sofa, and curled up at one end of it. Blaise gave Harry a warm, conspiratorial look with a roll of his eyes, and followed suit.

Harry folded himself into the opposite corner of the couch, as Blaise quite comfortably; it seemed to Harry, seated himself in a high-backed, winged armchair. Pansy kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet underneath her. Both of them seemed to be watching him nervously.

"What?" Harry asked, unable to bear it much longer. Pansy chewed on the edge of her thumb, looking at Blaise carefully. Harry quickly looked at the boy too. Blaise's face twisted into a grimace, but he nodded sharply.

"It's the match," Pansy began to explain cautiously. "You see, when you fell out of the sky-" Again, her eyes flicked to Blaise. It was almost as if she were… Scared. Of Malfoy. Harry shook his head a bit as if to clear it; the room was warm and he felt curiously drowsy.

Blaise took in a breath, and continued, breezily. "Same old situation, Draco. Potter and you lunge for the Snitch, Potter has a faster broom between his legs, he knocks into you and a Bludger finishes you both off." He gave Harry a sly, slanted little look. "Except that Professor Flitwick decided Potter had the claim on the Snitch. Oh, but what does Quidditch matter, anyway?" he put in quickly, sounding as if he was doing his best to appear bored beyond the pale. Harry was about to let the tumultuous grin spread across his face; he'd _won_, even when Malfoy had tried to knock him out of the air, he'd _won_ - and then he saw Pansy's face whiten.

"Oh, _don't_, Blaise," she said quietly, her hands clenching on her lap together. "Don't make it _worse_; he doesn't want to _know_, doesn't _want_ to - Oh _why_ did you bring it up?" she berated the dark-haired boy and Blaise's face drew into a sulky scowl.

"_Someone_ had to tell him, Pansy," he retorted. "I know it's not good news, but Draco still has to _know_. I knew you'd ask, you see," he turned to Harry apologetically. "And Gryffindor will crow for weeks after this. I thought it better, you're _prepared_."

They both faced him, both faces open and readable. Pansy's showed visible disappointment and regret and hurt, and Blaise's, somewhat more carefully hidden but the blasé despondency rubbing off around the edges to show that he too, cared that Malfoy might perhaps be a bit down that he'd lost. Again.

_Does Quidditch really matter that much to Malfoy?_ Harry wondered in utter bemusement. Yes, the losses were a great deal disheartening, but to be this worked up over them, for Malfoy's friends to panic about his loss…

He didn't know what to say, so shrugged his shoulders bewilderedly, and leant his head back against the soft plush of the furniture. Pansy and Blaise stared again.

"That's the first time we haven't been treated to a long rant," Pansy muttered in a low voice that Harry only just caught. Blaise shook his head.

"You look tired, Draco."

"I am," Harry decided, a wave of sleepiness sweeping across him. His mind ached with the complications of thinking; already he found it bizarre that Malfoy, Malfoy, appeared to have friends. Live ones. Albeit friends who were terrified that he'd find out he'd lost a Quidditch match, but friends all the same.

"It's late," Pansy said looking at a pretty gold watch on her wrist. "Nearly nine o'clock. Don't worry about the rounds tonight, Draco, I'll do them. You ought to go to bed."

"It's nine?" Harry repeated, eyes widening in shock. Blaise nodded.

"You were in the Hospital Wing a long time. Out for hours. Madam Pomfrey gave you something; to prevent injury, I think she said. I wasn't really listening," he said dismissively. "Come on then. 'Night, Pansy."

The slim boy hauled himself to his feet, and waited a moment. Harry got up, and Blaise slung an arm around his shoulders companionably.

"Acting awfully strange this evening," Pansy observed from her place on the sofa, looking up at them both. "But I imagine you'll sleep it off. Mother always said-"

"We don't want to hear about your dratted Mother," Blaise murmured in Harry's ear. "Goodnight, Pansy!" he said loudly as he steered Harry skillfully across the common-room. As his hand slipped from Harry's back down to Harry's arse, and squeezed it gently, almost absently, Harry breath caught in his throat in surprise. He looked across at Blaise, in shock but the youth was humming something softly, and opened the door to the dormitories with a dramatic flourish.

"Milord," he bowed low, his hair falling into his eyes, almost hiding the mocking glint there. Harry slipped in through the entrance-way, and Blaise closed the door behind them.

"God, the draughts in this place are terrible," he moaned, slamming it a little. He brushed past Harry to move quickly down a long corridor, a flight of stairs at the end of it, leading downwards. Blaise turned just before the stairs, and pushed open a door, disappearing inside a room. Slowly, Harry followed, looking all about him.

The room inside was very similar to his own dormitory. Five large four poster beds, their thick hangings a deep green stood about, trunks at the end of each. Blaise flopped down on what was evidently his own bed, and began pawing through his blankets, trying to find something. Harry looked around desperately, trying to work out which bed was Malfoy's. He moved closer to one, hoping to catch a glimpse of the name etched onto the trunk; no, wrong, 'Vincent Crabbe'. Blaise didn't appear to notice, as he caught sight with relief of 'Property of Draco Malfoy' stamped smartly on the top of a black metal trunk.

"I think you stuffed them under your pillow," Blaise said helpfully, from his own bed, waving a pair of pyjamas triumphantly in the air. They caught the light, shimmering a bit, apparently some sort of deep green satin. "Found mine. Goyle tried to make a flag out of them this morning," he groused, scowling. He curled up in the middle of his bed, tucking himself into a cross-legged comfortable position to wait for Harry.

Fishing gingerly under Malfoy's pillow – _urgh, Malfoy's pyjamas_ – Harry's fingers closed around bunched fabric, and he tugged. Far from the satin monstrosities Blaise had in his lap, much to Harry's relief, Malfoy's pyjamas weren't horrific. In fact, as he shook out a pair of plain, pin-striped cotton trousers and jacket, the only Slytherin-brat thing that was about them was that the needle thin stripes were in green.

He was about to haul his robes off and simply roll into bed, when Blaise coughed discreetly.

"Um, Draco?"

Harry looked up warily. Blaise looked half-way between shocked and confused. "What are you _doing_? There's mud. In your hair. I mean, far be it from _me_ to curb your fastidious habits, I _know_ that if I don't get up before you tomorrow, you'll pinch all the hot water, but you _never_ go to bed without showering. What's come_ over_ you?"

"Er, I forgot," was Harry's ever so eloquent response, and he looked about him desperately, rather hoping a towel would materialize before him, with 'property of Draco Malfoy' on it as well.

Blaise gave him another funny look, and eventually got up off the bed. "I don't believe I'm doing this," he declared, and then his lips twitched into a crooked little smile. Placing his hands purposefully on Harry's shoulders, and steered him back out of the dormitory, and across the hallway.

* * *

Through a door, with another exaggerated bow, Blaise stood beside Harry watching him. It was a bathroom. Much like the Gryffindor bathroom, except the toothbrushes in the cups beside the sinks were different, and the showers faced the wrong way around. By each, there was a small metal rack, tidily holding an array of flannels, and a shelf, that had different assortments of washing materials on them.

Harry slid a nervous look at Blaise, and tentatively made his way over to inspect them. Blaise seemed to wait.

"By all means, fulfill the fantasy I've cherished since I was old enough to have it," Blaise drawled. "Invite me to wash you." He arched an eyebrow in a provocative little look that seemed to make Harry just a _bit_ uneasy.

"I can manage, thanks," he said, with dignity, and Blaise smiled and gave a little bit of a laugh.

"Of course you can," he replied graciously. "I'll see you back in the dorms." He waltzed out, closing the door behind him.

Harry went back to inspecting the shelf. There were altogether far too many things crammed onto it, he decided. It was a matter of working out whose things were on which shelf, and using – _Urgh – _Draco's. At least, he considered to himself, if he were to use Draco's things on Draco's body, he wouldn't be contaminating his own. He rifled through things. There was a block of rather grimy grey soap, next to a grubby flannel. A similar, slippery blob of pale green soap that smelt of the sort of liquid soap you find in public toilets, and a blue flannel with 'Gregory Goyle' sewn on a name-tape into it. _What do you know? Goyle washes! Occasionally. _There was a grey bottle of something, and a folded black flannel underneath it. Harry skipped over this to come back to it, and found a bright pink bottle of something with things in Italian written all over it. He opened it, and took an experimental sniff. Strawberries. With a highly suspicious look at Malfoy's hands, he took a sniff of the long blond hair clinging stickily to his neck. Not strawberries. Safe.

With a sigh of relief, he put the pink stuff back on the shelf, and moved on. There was a tall jar, a sort of silvery colour, with a green glass stopper in the top. Beside it was another bottle. And another. All with the same scrolling silver writing on the back. Harry could make out a couple of words, but it was all in French. He picked up the weird looking blob beside the bottles on the shelf. It looked like a hair-net, screwed into a ball, then with a ribbon tied around the middle. Gloomily, he read 'Malfoy' written grandly on the ribbon. Then back at the bottles of things he didn't have a clue what to do with.

"Oh God," he voiced, audibly.

* * *

Harry stood with his back against the shower spigot, eyes squeezed closed blissfully against the hot water beating down against his shoulders, soothing places he didn't know were knotted tightly in stress. Running his hands through 'his' hair, Harry winced as his fingers caught in knots he doubted the water would sort out. The comforting warmth of the shower dimmed as he worried his bottom lip between his teeth, trying to work out which of the bottles did what. Shrugging, he squeezed a dollop of whitish stuff into his palm, and rubbed it vigorously into Malfoy's hair. A rich, expensive smell rose in the hair, tumbling over the clouds of steam, and Harry arched his back closer to the water, enjoying the luxury of not being told to turn off the water by Seamus, or Dean, or Ron, all of whom were normally shouting across the shower stalls at one another.

He pulled his fingers through his hair, going gently so not to tug again at it (remembered grimaces from pain making him a mite more sensitive) and closed his eyes, relishing the over-long shower for once. He'd worked out the scrunchy hair-net thing made a lather with the soap, and he'd scrubbed everywhere, pinkly triumphant that he'd worked out how to use it.

His eyes opened once more with a thoughtful expression, and with a quick glance through the semi-transparency of the shower curtain to check no one was about, glanced down. A bit disappointed that Malfoy wasn't a shriveled little specimen, he snorted a bit, more to suppress surprise that Malfoy wasn't …. Well …. Bigger. _The way he goes about boasting, you'd think he'd have trouble buying trousers._ Snickering to himself, Harry turned off the water, and stepped out, blinking water out of his eyes.

The rack of towels was thankfully, highly visible. Draco's towel, Harry noted, a pool of water forming at his feet, was also obvious. Emerald green, and embroidered with a crest; - _a _crest! _Bit much for something to dry yourself with!_ – Harry pulled it off the towel rail, and wrapped it around his waist tightly. He made short thrift of brushing his teeth, noting only that Malfoy did NOT have blood-flavoured toothpaste, as was the common myth of choice at the moment with those who deigned think about Malfoy, but peppermint, and pulled on the pyjamas.

Peering at himself in the misted glass, Harry looked despondently at Malfoy. A Malfoy whose damp blond hair was plastered to his head. Whose eyelashes had gone spiky in the wet of the shower. Whose pyjamas were baggy and hung from his thin frame to make him look small, and altogether harmless. Harry pulled a horrific face at Malfoy-in-the-mirror, and blinked when Malfoy-in-the-mirror pulled an equally horrible, but different face back. Shaking his head, Harry padded back across the corridor to the dormitory.

Bundling the clothes he'd shed onto Malfoy's trunk to deal with in the morning, Harry clambered into bed, and tugged the thick, downy quilt over himself, with a drowsy sigh. He was asleep, almost before his head touched the pillow.

* * *

When he awoke, someone was pushing at his shoulder. Lifting his head, he blinked sleepily at the invader. Blaise's own spiky dark head rose above the blankets next to him, and a warm foot removed itself from being wedged between Harry's thighs.

"Morning," Blaise yawned good-naturedly, with a dazzling smile. "Better get up," he suggested helpfully, as Harry stared at him, bewilderedly, "The bell's gone. If you don't get in the shower _now_, I'll hex you. You'll use up the hot water anyway, but I can't _stand_ it if you complain all the way through Herbology about how much you smell." Harry nodded dumbly, tossing back the covers, and sliding out.

"What?" Blaise demanded, sitting up properly now against Malfoy's pillows, and looking exceedingly sulky now, his hair mussed from sleep. "No 'get out of my bed, Zabini?'" He seemed properly offended, and climbed out the other side of Malfoy's bed, his back stiff with indignation. Harry stared, and then hurried off to the bathroom to have a wash and brush his teeth.

The taste of peppermint pleasantly tingling the roof of his mouth, Harry knotted the tie deftly, and then looked at himself in the glass. Draco Malfoy looked back, with a faint sneer. Harry jumped, glancing behind him and then back at the mirror. The Draco-in-the-mirror smirked nastily. He ran a brush quickly through his hair; didn't Malfoy normally have it glued back with something?; and decided that he could simply forgo the exhausting process of working out which _other_ products belonged to the fastidious blond.

As he entered the Great Hall, Harry made as if to go over to the Gryffindor table. People seated toward the end of it looked at him strangely, and hurriedly, he headed over to the Slytherin table, underneath the green banner. He sat down next to Blaise, who gave a huffy sniff, and turned away from him. A moment later, Pansy slid in beside him, the bench shifting as she did so. Her hair swung out from behind her ear and brushed his nose, smelling of roses. It was a faintly old-fashioned sort of smell, like Dudley's grandmother's talcum powder. Harry glanced at her, somewhat surprised. He hadn't pictured Pansy as the feminine type. She didn't seem to notice, simply tucking the swinging dark hair behind her ear once more, and shuffling up on the bench to give others more room.

Harry took a slice of toast from a porcelain rack on the table, and spread it with butter. He noticed the tea-pot sitting just across the table, and said politely, "Could you pass me the-?"

Before he'd finished his sentence, Pansy hastily handed him a silver pot.

"Don't remind us. I don't suppose I'll get any this morning, unless the house-elves are quick," she said crossly. "Blaise, why didn't you make him _hurry_ this morning?"

Blaise looked up deliberately, and then went back to eating his porridge in grand silence. Pansy glanced at Harry, an exasperated look on her face, twisting her rather large mouth into a frustrated pout.

"Let me guess," she muttered under her breath, as if to herself. Taking the pot from Harry's hands once more absently, she poured into his cup a thick, dark brown liquid. Coffee. Harry hated coffee. It was bitter, and nasty, and perhaps he could drink it if he could have milk in it, and lots of sugar and perhaps held his nose – Harry looked almost pleadingly at Pansy.

"What's wrong with you this morning?" Pansy asked, frowning. "Normally I can't take the coffee pot away from your cold, dead hand. You'd bite me if I tried."

No sugar. No milk. Harry took a deep breath in the hope he could swallow it without tasting it. Quickly, he worked out this wasn't the case. He took a large gulp, and swallowed _hard_. It tasted foul; horrible and bitter, and it left a thick, sticky, furry coating on his tongue. He tried to smile, and turned it quickly into another swallow. How Malfoy could drink the stuff every morning, and – As he bit into his toast, Pansy kindly refilled his cup.

"Good morning, Teddy," Pansy said primly, pouring a cup of tea for a thin, exhausted-looking boy who sat down at the table opposite Harry and Blaise. He had large, deep brown eyes, with over-long eyelashes, and his hair curled in a very boyish way, but rather long, falling over the collar of his shirt. Gratefully, Teddy accepted the cup of tea, and with a wrinkle of his nose, added a slice of lemon.

"Up all night again?" Pansy asked sympathetically, and Teddy nodded, looking into his tea.

"Professor Flitwick." His voice was so low it was almost a whisper. "Charms. I _can't_ fail, not when Father is expecting the end of term report – After that essay…" He tailed off and shrugged. Pansy took his toast from him and buttered it for him expertly, scraping jam over the top of it before passing it back.

"Eat up," she advised, and leant on her elbow on the table, watching him. A pretty blonde girl from further up the table called out something, and Pansy turned her back to Harry to talk. He was left to his own devices. He polished off his toast, and rose, wiping his mouth on his napkin - which rested beside his plate in a silver napkin ring with 'D. L. Malfoy' engraved on it – and made as if to move off from the table. Pansy glanced up and smiled.

"I'll see you in Potions," she said by way of a goodbye, and turned back to her friend to continue talking. Harry shrugged, and walked toward the door of the Great Hall. As he stepped outside, a hand fastened itself on the back of his robes, and spun him around. Yanking him into a cupboard, the light flickered on from a dim bulb above them, and Harry looked up into his own face, his hair sleeked back for once.

"We need to talk," Draco Malfoy said through Harry's mouth, grimly.

* * *

A/N: Next chapter, Draco and Harry discuss what's happening, first lessons, and a bet. Coming up in future chapters, midnight meetings in the Room of Requirement, The DA meetings and Truth or Dare!

Please review! I'm extremely pleased for any feedback.


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